The Fall of Camelot
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: They say that Camelot fell in tragedy after the death of its greatest king, Arthur Pendragon. They say he died in battle, his heart broken by his wife's cruel betrayal, but it was not his wife's betrayal which killed him. It was his own.


_Wow. 5,859 words of nothing but more, miserable angst. Can you believe I even had this in me?  
I did make a strange discovery, though. It seems that from the start of January to the end of May, especially now when the days are short and dark and frigidly dreadful and we're only just ending the second quarter of school, my muse realizes that I might go COMPLETELY BONKERS if I don't have some sort of way to distract myself from the fact that there is no sunshine until summer (literally and figuratively), and so my writing takes a turn for the dramatic. Not that it isn't dramatic anyway, but y'know...I do apologize for dishing this stuff out on you poor people, but I hope maybe this will be a lesson to you: somebody always has it worse. x)  
And I feel I should warn you for major character deaths, though they're not descriptive. I didn't go that far...yet. Heh._

* * *

**The Fall of Camelot**

The past year had been hell.

It had been so for all of them, the kingdom in its entirety. Every man, woman, and child had suffered from a nearly unprofitable harvest; some had died of starvation even before the last leaves had fallen, despite all efforts from Camelot to salvage them. The worst winter in decades had enveloped the land at all corners, claiming the lives of many with its cruel and bitter chill; whole towns became sick from it, and by the time the snow and ice began to melt in weak sunlight, six villages were empty of all life. In the spring, a callous king from the south had invaded a portion of the kingdom, and he and his army destroyed more villages in their bloody march across the land than any in the past. It took a defense of more than half of Camelot's knights to repel him, but not before hundreds of innocent lives were taken without mercy. Only a week after, reports of bandits striking the northern part of the kingdom arrived, and the rest of the knights were sent away from Camelot to defend the outlying villages, leaving the city open for an attack from the witch Morgana. It was for the unexpectedness of her chance and her subsequent lack of strategy that caused her and her army to lose their battle, but only just.

When it was all over at last, the unhappiness had been so strong and the weariness so overwhelming that Guinevere, being nearly seven months with child, had broken under the strain of it all. She had become both physically and mentally frail, bedridden and refusing to speak more than a few sentences to anyone; not even Arthur's loving voice or Merlin's gentle spells had been enough to pull her from the darkness. When Lancelot had returned with the army which had been fighting in the south, she'd requested that he sit with her, and so he had for many hours while she recovered; he seemingly had been the only thing which could bring life and color to her sickly-gray face, and so Arthur had allowed it without question, though Merlin had worried inwardly for what it might mean.

For nearly two months after, the kingdom had strived to rebuild itself after the damage wrought upon it. It was not an easy undertaking, and for the king more than anyone else, it was almost more trying than the actual battles themselves had been. Merlin had watched with compassion as Arthur grew paler and thinner with each passing day, and he had done anything and everything he could think to do to help and uplift his friend and king in the midst of the burdens.

Arthur, whose many years had strengthened him in some ways and softened him in others, had seen the efforts his sorcerer put forth, even weakening himself so that he might offer his own strengths to his king in the form of potions and enchantments that might ease Arthur's mind and help him to sleep more peacefully. He never had voiced his own thanks in words, but he'd known Merlin would understand his unspoken gratitude. He always had.

When Arthur had found himself for the first time in the physician's chambers, sitting on the small and squeaky stair which led to the once-servant's now irredeemably disorganized bed-room, pouring his very soul to the solemn man beside him and, for once in his life, holding nothing at all back, he had at first half-expected the other man to dismiss him as simply overtired and therefore immensely overdramatic, to perhaps issue him a new sleeping draft and send him away to his chambers with admonishment to remain strong. He had quickly felt guilty for even considering such a thing, however, for it was nearly three candle-marks later that Merlin finally walked with him back to his rooms (separate now from where Guinevere lay ill), after a long and tender string of bright-eyed reassurances and gentle-voiced guidance which had soothed the king's aching head more than any magical sleeping draft ever had.

He had long-since stopped counting the amount of times he had ended up there, merely sitting with his beloved friend and sorcerer, talking in a voice so open he would not have ever believed it was himself speaking had he heard it in years past. Merlin, who also had evolved with age, now with slightly haunted eyes and a short, dark beard which he probably would have found comical as a younger man, had never stopped Arthur, never had told him that he was too weary to handle the king's problems tonight, but only had he done whatever he could to sustain Arthur's courage and resupply the kingdom's contentment, using his magic and compassion as one whole and sending it forth in whatever form he could to assist everyone around.

It had made him weary to be constantly giving of his upmost strength, both physical and emotional, and to also be steadily drained of his magic, at times almost more than he could inwardly revive all at once. He had only to remember Arthur's tired blue eyes, and the wrecked homes of their good people, however, and his motivation had carried on without regard for himself.

It had been the middle of summer when he'd been walking past Guinevere's chambers just in time to hear whispers which had halted him in his step.

For two weeks, he had pondered in his heart how he could possibly tell Arthur, who was just starting to laugh again the same way he had before, that his wife was plotting to run away with his best knight after the birth of Arthur's child.

He had never gotten the chance, however, because it had been less than a week after that that the king who had attacked them only months before returned, his army strengthened twofold by a new accord with Morgana. In a desperate attempt to protect Camelot, the red-caped knights had marched forth from the city, led by Arthur, to meet the advancing enemy.

It was well into harvest season when they returned home at last after the longest and bloodiest conflict in the past hundred years of Camelot's history. They were victorious, but not one man felt so when they were three-fourths smaller than when they had begun.

Arthur and Merlin walked together into the castle as the sun went down. The king was forever scarred and the sorcerer nearly faint from exhaustion, but both were unspeakably relieved and overjoyed that now, at long last, it was all over. Morgana and Mordred were dead, the enemy-king's army fallen, and Merlin felt that now, after endless decades of quiet war, they might recover and live many years until their deaths in peace.

A maiden ran to them, head bowed and voice quivering with emotion.

Guinevere and their son had been ill since his birth a week earlier. They both had died, she said quietly, an hour apart that very morning.

* * *

They entered the room just as the last rays of sun vanished and darkness cloaked the city.

A dying flame danced in the fireplace, just barely bright enough still for its light to meet them in the doorway. The maiden, head bowed in silent reverence, floated about the room, quickly lighting candles; Merlin considered, briefly, offering to light each wick with a single word, only to look down at his hands and see his fingers trembling with his fatigue. Nearly every portion of his already-diminished magic had been consumed by the terrible battle; his chest felt hollow, his heart beating on the last ounce of strength he had remaining, his veins spreading the blessed blood to his empty body so that it might replenish the magic he so needed.

Arthur stepped to the side of the bed, one, calloused and dirty hand reaching out to touch the wisps of golden hair delicately arranged on the head of his lifeless newborn. His eyes, listless as stone, slid up to Guinevere's dark face, which was void of any emotion as she lay with her cold arms around her dead child.

The maid slipped from the room, as silently as a ghost, and in her place came a man.

Merlin's sea-blue gaze met Lancelot's dark one, and the warlock nearly pitied his once-friend for the abject sorrow he saw in the depths of his brown eyes. If he did not know what he did, he would have perhaps tried to comfort the brave knight. Instead, the two held each other's stare for a long moment, each man wondering what the intensity of the other's might mean.

If Arthur felt the presence of the third man, he said nothing for it, and so Merlin pulled his eyes from Lancelot's and kept them fixed instead upon his friend, searching for any sign upon which he should act, choosing in his mind how long he should wait before he attempted to console his beloved king over this loss.

Arthur inhaled a heavy breath. His hands shook as he brushed a dark curl from Guinevere's face, and then, something seemed to shift in his expression. His eyes lifted to Merlin's, and the look there made the sorcerer's stomach twist, not with sympathy for the sadness, but with a strange sort of fear.

"Bring them back, Merlin."

Merlin felt his entire body go cold.

For years, he had not left Arthur's side, and he had seen every angle of the other man's complex personality. This piece of it, this dark piece which made his pupils swallow up the blue of his eyes and his voice slip into a rumble as low and deep as distant echoes of thunder, was his most raw and primitive form. It was the part of him that was a Pendragon—cold, obstinate, irrational—and nothing more. It had belonged to his father and was repeated within him, that pattern of thought which did not consider the consequences, which believed itself to be the only voice of reason. Arthur was not well, Merlin knew better than anyone; he was physically spent, mentally and emotionally worn, and it was hardening him, making the inborn stringency ever-more powerful.

Merlin looked down into Guinevere's face. Once, he had thought it was lovely, so pure and kind; now, even in death, it was to him like a mirror reflecting the truth of what was in her heart. He thought of her confessions of love, which had once convinced him to his core that she was the only one who could make Arthur happy; how empty and cruel those confessions seemed now that he had heard her selfish scheme with his own ears.

He looked to Lancelot, to the flicker of hope which had ignited on his face at Arthur's words. Once, that hope may have made him smile, made him remember that sincerity and gallantry was still thriving even in the midst of evils. Now, the blackness of Lancelot's eyes turned the small flame of hope into dark smoke, choking and impenetrable. In whom he once thought was as gentle and pure-hearted as any man could be, he now saw as the cruelest of coveters.

He looked to Arthur, to the blue of his eyes, dimmed with weariness and troubled and yet still so noble and true. Arthur was good, in the most perfect sense of the word. He was loyal, and just, and he loved those around him with an unshakeable love, one which could not be undone or compromised; his love was as whole and innocent as a child's, as great and eternal as a mountain. Arthur was like a ray of sun in a world of night. He was everything.

Merlin looked again to his hands. They shook harder now; his body trembled, his head burning and pounding. He couldn't do this…he couldn't….If he knew…if only Arthur _knew_ what he was asking…if only he could understand the cruelty and injustice of his plea….

"I can't, Arthur," his whisper came nearly before he knew what he was saying.

When he looked into his king's eyes, his breath caught in his throat, for what he saw there was wrong, so very, very wrong. He saw hurt; he saw betrayal, and he wanted to plead with him, to beg him to understand the truth—that it was _not me, not me, Arthur; don't look at me like that; I'm not the one hurting you_….

Before he could utter a sound, Arthur had moved, as quickly as a prowling lion, and his eyes were mere inches from Merlin's own, so that his sorcerer could see every tiny fleck of pale blue mixing in with the deep sapphire firmament. He could see into Arthur's very soul, every line of azure in his eyes like a line of passion, of feeling—desperation, hope, fear, anger, betrayal, fragility, all striking him at once, making him wish that he could do this for him, could make all the vile things tainting his soul vanish with just a word.

"I've seen you bring men back from death," came the low timbre, every syllable saturated with that betrayal, that confusion of _why are you doing this, Merlin?_ "I've seen fallen warriors regain their spirits by your words. Do not tell me that you cannot do it now."

Merlin swallowed, but did not look away or step back in trepidation.

"You don't understand," he nearly whispered, and realized suddenly that he couldn't get his voice any stronger, that he was too drained to even speak louder. "I'm too weak, Arthur. My strength is gone. Let me bring back your son."

Lancelot's eyes flashed with something indefinable somewhere behind Arthur, but Merlin cared too little to pay him any heed.

"I can return his life to him, Arthur," he said, as he gazed intensely into his friend's eyes, pleading in silence. "He is innocent; his life is still pure and young. I will give all I have for him. I cannot give more than that."

"You can return both of their lives, Merlin," came the hard reply, and Arthur grasped his narrow arm in a bruising grip, and he could see it in Arthur's eyes; he was so tired, so broken already…He could not understand, was too engulfed by pain and exhaustion, too blinded by war and grief to see what he was doing, and Merlin's heart broke for him, because he knew that what he asked was to wound him only further.

"I will die, Arthur," he nearly choked, deciding now that it was too much, too late to be gentle with him any longer; Arthur must know the truth…_He must see_.

The world-hardened leader faded from Arthur's eyes, and his fingers relaxed their grip around Merlin's arm.

"I am not strong enough," Merlin continued, and there were tears in his voice, not of sorrow but of his own exhaustion. "Everything—the war, Arthur…my magic is so weak. It cannot bear the weight to pull two souls from death."

"You are lying, Merlin," but said in a voice shaking with some twisted sort of hope.

Merlin caught a glimpse of Lancelot, dressed all in black and moving a small step closer to where the king and sorcerer stood, and he could not stop himself, he had to make Arthur know, had to make him see what this would inflict….

"They're going to betray you, Arthur," he whispered. "If I do this, she will only leave you. She will run with Lancelot. They will take your baby from you. You may never see them again. Please, you must believe me—"

"_ENOUGH_!"

The shout was enough to frighten him, and that had never been before, in all their years of companionship. He found himself instinctively shying against the pillar behind him, realizing at once that the suffocating intensity of his emotions was joining the emptiness in his chest and making him pant breathlessly for air.

Arthur's eyes shut tightly, his face crumpling as a thousand thoughts and emotions played in his overwrought mind, his own breathing harsh and deep, and when he opened his eyes again, Merlin's heart sank at the stone-blue of them.

"Enough, Merlin." Nearly a hiss. "No more excuses. I don't care why you have seemingly hated my wife for months. Whatever you have against her, your reasons do not matter to me. You may be my court's sorcerer, but you are still but a servant to my will. _I command you_. Bring them back. Now."

Merlin struggled to catch his breath, and gazed unflinchingly into Arthur's eyes, even while he realized in a sorrowful part of himself that Lancelot would not defend him to their king.

"Arthur." A broken murmur. "I am not lying to you. I am too weak. I'll…"

He half-choked, struggling to breathe past the strangling lump in his throat, raspy coughs jolting his chest painfully.

"I will die," he whispered, and he knew he must look so very pitiable, and wondered if perhaps he could still make Arthur see, could still change his mind….

A moment of silence between them, and then, unfeeling as a frigid wind,

"I will send Lancelot after your supplies."

When Arthur turned away to give the hitherto silent knight his instruction, neither of them noticed a single tear fall and shatter on the cold ground.

* * *

Arthur never realized it when Merlin paused for a moment before reciting the words. He never noticed it when Merlin's shaking hands nearly spilt the enchanted mixture, or when his eyes grew dim with tears just before he poured the shimmering liquid down the queen's dry throat. He was too preoccupied to see when Merlin cringed and nearly collapsed in the same moment that Guinevere's caramel eyes flew open and his son's innocent crying filled the room.

He never realized it when Lancelot's and Guinevere's eyes met while he embraced her.

He did notice it, however, when he looked up, his eyes bright and shining once again, only to find the object of his gratitude was gone and the door of the room flung open.

* * *

Arthur inhaled a deep breath before resting his hand on the familiar door-knob. In his mind, he had not formed any words to say, for Merlin had taught him long ago that there was no poetry more touching than that spoken from the heart and unrehearsed by the mind.

When he pushed the worn, plank-wood door open, he was oddly relieved to see the sight which had become so familiar to him he though he probably could not survive without it now.

There was a single candle lit on the shelf near the back wall of the place, its little flame flickering strange shadows across the floor as so many nameless objects blocked its golden glow. Its light only barely licked at the corner of the indigo cloak which was settled with unintentional elegance across the old steps leading to the back room.

When the figure seated upon those steps gave him no greeting, Arthur quietly made his way across the dark place to where the light was, mindful of the various tables and stools as he maneuvered with an expertise through the comfortingly familiar things scattered about the room. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he sent up silent thanks that he was, finally, home again from the brutal battle, and that those whom he cared for were all with him again, and would be for as long as he so desired.

Even when the king stood before him in an expectant silence, Merlin, with his head against the wooden handrail and his arms wrapped about himself, did not look away from where he stared straight ahead, and if Arthur had looked deep enough, he would have seen the sorrow and emptiness in his glassy-pale orbs, and he might have understood what the silence truly meant.

After several heartbeats, the broad-shouldered king clenched his teeth in decision and moved to settle carefully down beside his friend on the stair.

Only the bated, measured breaths of the sorcerer filled the silence for a brief moment, and then, Arthur took another long, grounding breath through his nostrils.

"Merlin," said he quietly, and more than a little timidly, even as he struggled for the right things to reach his mind so that he might give his friend the words he deserved to hear, "I am sorry for what happened just now."

No answer but a tired blink of Merlin's sky-blue eyes.

"I should never have spoken to you like that," Arthur ventured on, his handsome, if slightly haggard, face full of his honesty and his voice soft with sincerity. "I know you have done nothing but good for me, and I owe you more than I could ever repay. I apologize for the times when I forget that."

There was still nothing, and so he bit his lip once before choosing his next words carefully.

"I don't know," said he slowly, "why you did not want to revive my wife, Merlin, but I just want you to understand my gratitude for what you did. I shall be forever in your debt, old friend. I promise that, from this moment on, I will do all I can to repay that debt; I hope with all my heart that you will never have to endure another hardship for as long as you live, especially not for my sake."

Then, his rugged hand settled open his dear friend's shoulder, and all else was forgotten as he felt the coldness seeping through even the two layers of clothing.

"Merlin," said he, frowning as his fingers encircled the sharp shoulder, "you're so cold."

He eyes roamed the shelves and tabletops until he spotted the familiar blanket wedged in between two books; it was the blanket he knew Merlin always kept out in expectation that he or some other troubled soul might come for his aid, for his magic or for his comfort. Arthur stood quickly and fetched it, returning to bend down before his old friend, caring not that he was the other's king as he drape it around Merlin's shoulders, tugging it around him with a tenderness he never intended, but which came naturally for him when he was caring for his sorcerer.

Merlin scarcely acknowledged the act, except to pull the edge of the blanket tighter around himself.

Arthur's frown deepened at the acute shiver which ran through the thin body beside him, and he reached out again, this time with both hands, to hold Merlin's shoulder and touch the back of his neck.

"Merlin," he questioned quietly, as he began unconsciously rubbing small circles into the icy-cold flesh at the tip of his spine, "why are you shaking so?"

When he received no answer still, something seemed to tug at the edges of his mind; it was something dark and terrifying, a memory, something Merlin had said…but he could not remember what, for he had been so very overwhelmed so that he could hardly remember any of the past hour, only that Merlin had brought back his wife and child, had saved them for him….

_At what price?_ a voice whispered in his mind, its echoes pushing the fear further out into his consciousness.

"Merlin,"—He shifted closer, his boots sliding against the wooden stair, shaking his friend gently as a strange sort of panic rose in his throat.—"what is it? Merlin, please, tell me what's wrong."

Merlin's gaze moved, slowly, to settle on his face, and he found his breath stolen by the sorrow he could—_finally_—see clouding those pure and tender eyes. Suddenly, every one of Merlin's features seemed to become clear as daybreak to him—the pallid demeanor, the lines of age beyond his years, the way his entire frame trembled even in the warmth of the place. It all struck him, made him wonder for the first time exactly how much Merlin had endured these past months, how much he had failed to recognize before now. And then…

"I'm dying, Arthur."

He felt the color drain from his face, his heart skipping as the words, so simple and hollow, struck him like physical blows to his chest. More words, fresh in his mind, rose to the surface, words of pleading, of _Merlin's_ pleading…_"I will die, Arthur…I am too weak…Please, you must believe me…"_ and he blocked them out instinctively, to stop them and the reality they entailed.

Merlin offered nothing more, gave no indication that he saw his friend's distress, but only turned his lifeless face away so that he stared ahead once again, face growing fairer like a ghost and shoulders shaking even in the cocoon of the blanket. Betrayal and rejection stung behind his eyes as he felt his strength ebb out of him little by little.

"I told you I was weak," he whimpered softly, his voice broken and without any of the liveliness which once had characterized him, "and still you didn't listen. You made me give everything left in me."

A tear blurred his vision, and he did not even have the energy remaining to clear it away.

"You took more from me than I had to give, Arthur," he whispered brokenly, "and now, I have nothing left to sustain me."

He moved again, to meet the king's startled-bright eyes.

"Why didn't you just _listen_?"

There was no accusation, no anger, but only a wretched, incurable sadness.

Despite the toxic dread swallowing his heart, Arthur forced himself to move, forced his hand to pat Merlin's shoulder lightly as he said with a smile dreading and fragile and desperately, desperately hopeful,

"I know you're tired, Merlin." He began to stroke the thin arm beneath the blanket, moving ever-closer like an unconscious effort to offer his warmth to Merlin's frigid body. "I know you've been through so much in the past—too much, and I know you must be so sick of battle and suffering."

He rested his hand on Merlin's bent knee, so narrow that his fingers could curve around it, and moved his hand to ruffle the strands of dark hair at the base of his neck.

"It's over now," said he softly. "It's all fine now, Merlin. You can stay here, get your strength back. You don't have to do anything until you're healthy again; I promise you, old friend. You can rest for as long as you need."

Merlin's eyes shut tightly, his expression almost pained at Arthur's gentle words and his soothing touch. He pulled his hand up to his face, to scrub weakly at his eyes, but when he opened them again, the lingering tear fell nonetheless.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," he whispered, and Arthur wondered what he could find to apologize for, what his pure and perfect sorcerer could possibly have done wrong, how he could think Arthur would truly ever blame him for anything.

Merlin looked at him then, and there were more tears glimmering in his ocean eyes; his voice was saturated with them.

"I've never wanted to hurt you," he said, voice stronger now with his roiling emotions. "I'm sorry I have."

Arthur had the most unnatural urge to laugh; indeed, a single huff of mirth forced itself from his chest, and he squeezed the cool knee under his palm.

"You've never hurt me, Merlin," he told him, for if he could never be sure of anything else, if the sun fell from the sky and the stars ceased to shine, he would always be sure that Merlin would never hurt him.

"I have now," came the near-silent reply, as Merlin looked away, as though unable to bear seeing the king's eyes any longer.

Arthur wrapped his fingers gently around his sorcerer's arm.

"Come on, Merlin, you must get to bed. You need to sleep. Then you may feel better."

Merlin allowed him to pull him to his feet, leaning nearly all his weight on the strong and solid king as he took the few steps into the unlit bed-room. He said nothing more, even when Arthur laid his shaking body on the old mattress and pulled the thin blankets into a tight bundle around him.

Arthur swallowed past the growing knot in his throat as he threw another blanket over his motionless friend and searched for anything more he could use to warm him. The soft, misty rays of the moon only barely made it through the coverless window in the wall above, its glow scarcely strong enough to reflect the moisture in Merlin's eyes as they gazed up at him, wide and searching.

He wished silently in himself that Merlin would stop, _just stop_ staring at him in that way, like he was striving to memorize him, like this was his final time ever seeing him, like he was the only thing that mattered in all the world…like he was apologizing for something again, and there was nothing, _nothing_ he could ever do that would make Arthur find fault in him, and surely he must know that?

That choking terror rose in his chest again, and he turned away and pressed his hand against his temple in a desperate hope to push away the memories tearing at his mind, memories which told him this was his fault, that he hadn't listened, had been too blind, too selfish…_all his fault_….

"Please don't leave."

He turned at the quiet voice, and his heart, though hardened and scarred by wars and wounds beyond the mortal flesh, seemed to be breaking inside his chest when he saw the fingers outstretched, as if to beckon him back to Merlin's side, and he could never reject his plea, could never even think to.

So Arthur forced away his own self-loathing, for how could he indulge in his own guilt and agony when Merlin needed him?

_Merlin needed him_, and he had done this to him, had put him through all these years of affliction and distress, never repaid him for his deeds, _never thanked him_, never once told him what he felt, how much he needed him, and admired him, and _loved _him…and now here he lay, dying, because of him, because of his arrogance and his greed, because he was willing to do whatever Arthur asked of him, even if it meant sending himself to death just to give him what he thought he wanted.

Arthur cursed himself for the tears he could feel burning in his throat, and he sat on the bed beside his friend, reaching for his hand in the darkness of the place and moving it tenderly beneath the warmth of the blankets, touching Merlin's still-shaking shoulder with his other hand, flattening his palm against it in a vain effort to warm the chill away.

"I'm not," he said in answer, whispering it to the near-blackness of the room. "I'm here, Merlin. I'm not going to leave you now."

He felt the cool body relax into the slack mattress, and though Merlin let his head relax against the thin pillow, his eyes remained open, awake, staring into the nothingness of the far wall while he clutched onto Arthur with his hand.

* * *

Three hours later, there was a knock at the door, and Arthur released the hand he had been holding to answer it, so that he might send the person away.

He was gone for only a few moments, but when he returned, Merlin's half-closed eyes did not have to behold his face, for the part deep within him which belonged to Arthur felt the news even before the king could utter a word of it.

Arthur sat beside him in the same place as before, taking his hand once again and staring down at it in the still-darkness, running his own fingers along its icy edges as if he were examining a piece of fine craftsmanship.

"They're gone, aren't they?"

Arthur never answered, only leant up to press his warm palm against the cold cheek of his precious sorcerer, clutching his hand suddenly as if it was his only possession in life, the only thing that mattered anymore.

"It doesn't matter," he murmured, but Merlin could hear it, the grief and loss, ugly, tainting his voice, and he wanted to weep as he thought that there was only more of it to come now; there was no way to save him from it this time. "It doesn't matter, Merlin. Just…"

He stopped, swallowing forcibly, and raised his head again to look down into Merlin's eyes, his own filled with the sorrowed tears he refused to shed.

"Do not worry for me, Merlin." He ran his thumb gently against the base of Merlin's throat. "Just make yourself well. Please, I know what I've done; I've asked of you too much, far too much, and I have no right to ask any more. Just, _please_, Merlin—"

He choked then, the tears he was so desperately fighting threatening to suffocate him, and he bent his head in shame of them. Merlin's heart broke for him over again, because he was a noble king, and a good man, and never had he done anything to deserve this…._Neither of them had_….It was they who had saved so much life, who had brought peace and abundance upon the land, had freed the magic of the earth to Albion, and why, _why_ should they suffer this? Why should they both die in sorrows after the blessings they had strived to give less deserving souls? Where was the justice for the two saviors of Albion?

His shaking fingers ghosted along dull, blonde hair.

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

And there was nothing more he could say.

* * *

Eventually, it was believed that King Arthur Pendragon was wounded mortally in the war and died alone in a blood-bathed valley. The writers of the history books of Camelot wrote that it was by Mordered's sword that he perished, for it was a most fitting and poetic way for their great king to fall—by the wrath of his darkest and most powerful foe.

Queen Guinevere and the knight Lancelot were never seen again in the city. Their son, whose hair was gold as sun-lightened wheat and eyes as blue as sapphires, became a silversmith in a village on the edge of a different kingdom. Here he died a meager and aged man, never knowing that the envied throne in distant Camelot was his own to claim.

They say today that Camelot collapsed because King Arthur fell first—that without his courage and wisdom to uphold it, it came apart without influence from any outside army. How tragic, they say, that a city with so noble a reputation could come to ruin so quickly, so that one day it was standing proud and mighty, and the next, it was burning to the ground of its own volition.

Those who read of it today do not know all the truth, for there is nothing more tragic than reality.

Arthur Pendragon did die alone. Camelot fell less than a year following.

And the sorcerer Merlin saw it all inside his mind as he breathed his last breath in a dark room filled with guilt and despair.

**The End**

* * *

_Yeah, like I said. DRAMATIC.  
Reviews are still welcomed with open arms, though! Go on, you all know you want to hate on me. I don't blame you. _I _want to hate on me._


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